


trade all my tomorrows (for just one yesterday)

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Beheading, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Depression, F/M, Graphic Description, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Ronin Clint Barton, Suicidal Thoughts, Swordfighting, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Clint sighs. “I’m letting you live,” he says, “because I want you to tell the story. You get to be my messenger. My warning.”“Warning for what?”“That there’s still people watching,” Clint says. “Guys like you seem to think that just because half the world disappeared, no one cares what you do anymore.” He reaches out and grabs Oleg’s hair, wrenching his head back. “But I care, asshole. I care a lot. And I can do something about it.”
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Laura Barton
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	trade all my tomorrows (for just one yesterday)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harcourt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/gifts).



> Prompted by a [< tumblr post](https://haforcere.tumblr.com/post/621388564695056384/anyway-what-endgame-has-made-me-want-a-super-ton) by [haforcere](https://haforcere.tumblr.com/). Hope this is kind of what you were looking for?
> 
> Title from Fall Out Boy because I'm indulging my inner emo teen. Not beta'ed so all typos and mistakes and language screw-ups are mine and I'm not sharing them.

Once upon a time, there was a farm.

Clint still sees it in his dreams sometimes. Sees a brown-haired woman with a perfect smile, and three kids who look at him like he’s the best thing in the world. Everything is always hazy in that dream, all blurred edges and skipped moments of time, but there’s a warmth to it as well. A happiness. A sense of belonging.

But then he wakes up, and it’s gone, and he wonders if any of it was ever real at all. Did he have a farm? Did he have a family?

_You had two,_ he reminds himself. _You had Laura, and the kids, and you had the Avengers. You had so much, and you didn’t know it._

And now he has nothing.

Clint swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as it pulls at the wound in his side. His stitches must have split open again. He can feel the wet drip of blood down his side. “Goddamnit,” he mutters.

He gets up and goes into the bathroom. Might as well fix it, since he’s up. He washes his hands, then fumbles around for a bit in the darkness until he snags his meager first-aid kit. “Gotcha.”

He goes back to the bed and turns on the dim lamp—his only light source in this stupid, cramped little shoebox of an attic. It’s not enough, but it’s gonna have to do for now. He peels back the bandage and takes a look. Yep, it’s bleeding. Badly, too. He must have been moving a lot more in his sleep than he thought.

He’s about halfway through, biting his tongue to keep from swearing up a storm, when he hears the distinct sound of the stairs creaking. Clint freezes mid-stitch and looks up.

It could be the old lady who owns the place. She brings him food, sometimes, when she thinks he’s getting too skinny, or as thanks for fixing things around the house. He keeps telling her not to do it, but she’s very insistent. Keeps telling him she owes him. He disagrees with that—he would have killed those assholes whether or not they’d murdered her husband—but she seems to think otherwise, and if that means taking some free food every once in awhile…well, he’s not gonna complain too hard about it.

The stair creaks again, and Clint quickly ties off the stitch. He slaps the bandage back in place and gets off the bed, reaching for his katana.

“Clinton?”

Clint lets out a breath and drops the sword, then takes a step towards the door and opens it. “ _Hola_ , Sofía.”

“ _Hola,_ Clinton. _Cómo estás?_ " She's carrying a plate of food covered in foil. It smells fantastic.

“ _Bien, y usted?_ ”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the bloody bandage on his side. “ _Estas sagrando_ ,” she finally says, sounding stern. “ _Por qué?_ ”

Clint winces. His Spanish isn’t great yet; he’s only been here for a few months. He’s picking it up quickly, but he’s not entirely sure he’s got the vocabulary for ‘I got into a fight with a bunch of guys about an underage brothel, and one of them managed to stab me in the side.’ So he just shrugs and says, “ _No es importante_.” Sofía gives him a look, and he sighs. “ _Estoy bien._ _Te prometo_.”

“Clinton _,”_ she says, sounding both fond and exasperated, and follows it up with something he doesn’t quite catch. She presses the plate of food into his hands— _chili rellenos_ , she’s way too good to him—and goes back down the stairs.

Clint carries the plate back to his bed and sits down. It’s fantastic, same as always, and he’s already halfway through it by the time she comes back. She steps into his room with a small box tucked under one arm. Clint pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, and looks up.

“ _Déjame ver,_ ” she says, gesturing to the bandage. She tilts the box his direction. Medical supplies.

“You don’t have to,” Clint says, pointing at his first-aid kit. “ _Usted no tiene que._ I can do it myself.”

“Clinton _,”_ she says again, voice leaving no room for argument. “ _Déjame ver._ ”

Clint sets the plate on his little nightstand and pulls off the bandage. Sofía looks at his makeshift stitching with a clearly unimpressed expression, and gestures for him to lay down.

She stitches him up quickly. There’s an experience to her motions, like she’s done this before. Hell, maybe she has. Clint doesn’t know much about her other than that she’s a great cook, and that her husband was brutally murdered by a local cartel in a drug deal gone wrong. He’s pretty sure she has kids, but she doesn’t talk about them, and he’s never asked. He’s also pretty sure that she’s risking her life by helping him, but he’s never asked about that either.

It’s not that he doesn’t care. He does. But ever since That Day, he’s found that he’s a little more numb to things like that. Once upon a time, he would have refused to put her at risk by staying here. Now, he just accepts it. She’s an adult. She can make her own choices.

“ _Gracias,”_ he says as she sits back and strips her gloves off. The stitching is neat and orderly. Professional, almost. He can’t help but be a little impressed. It’s certainly better than what he would’ve done.

“ _Yo era una enfermera,”_ she says as he examines it.

“ _Enfermera…_ nurse? You were a nurse?”

_“Sí.”_ She tapes a fresh bandage over it. “ _Mejor?”_

_“Mucho mejor. Gracias por su ayuda.”_

_“De nada. Come la cena.”_ She smiles at him and pats his cheek, then gathers up her stuff and takes it back downstairs. Clint sits on his bed and finishes the _chili rellenos,_ savoring the spiciness that spreads over his tongue. He doesn’t deserve any of this, but he enjoys it anyway. He’s learned that, now. Learned to appreciate things while he still has them in his hands, because he knows how fast it can all be taken away. Gone in an instant with nothing more than the snap of a finger.

He swallows his feelings along with the last bite and takes the plate downstairs to her. “ _Gracias,”_ he says again. “For everything. Thank you.”

Sofía puts her hand on his arm. “Of course, _mijo,”_ she says softly, and kisses his cheek.

It’s the last nice thing that happens to him for a very long time.

* * *

Clint has always had the capacity to frighten her.

Natasha will never forget the first time she met him. She knew he was following her that night, knew he’d been sent to kill her. She reeled him in, played the game, flashed him pretty smiles and hints of skin until she had him right where she wanted him.

And then somehow he’d gotten the upper hand. The stumbling, blushing awkwardness was traded for chilling competency in what seemed like a single heartbeat, and Natasha had suddenly found herself on the wrong end of a bow. She’d looked down the line of an arrow, into his cold gaze, and felt fear for the first time in years.

He hadn’t killed her, of course. He was never going to. But Natasha can still recall every second of that encounter, all the way down to the metallic taste of terror in the back of her throat. She can still see the look in his eyes, the tautness of his muscles, the steady pull of the bowstring. Can still hear the little voice in the back of her mind warning her, _there is danger here._

So she knows, probably better than anyone, how terrifying Clint Barton can be.

But this—

This–

“Are you sure it’s him?” she asks Rhodey, because she has to be sure. She _has_ to be.

“I’m sure,” he says. He gently pries the photos from her hands, as if taking them away will remove them from her memory. Natasha’s always prided herself on having an iron stomach, but those pictures—

_What are you doing, Clint?_

She swallows it down. She is Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow. She has spent her whole life hiding her emotions behind a blank mask, and this is no time to change that.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says. “Keep—keep me updated.”

She hates herself for the hitch in her voice, but Rhodey makes no comment. “Of course,” he says softly. “Anything else?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Okay.” Rhodey puts a hand on her shoulder. “Get some sleep, Nat. Please?”

“I will,” she lies.

Rhodey leaves, then, and Natasha gets to her feet. She walks over to the windows, moving like she’s in a dream, and carefully presses her palm against the chilled glass.

He’s out there, somewhere. Grieving, and in pain, and thousands of miles away from anything she can do to help. Not that there’s anything she can do, really. Not this time.

“Clint,” she whispers, her voice breaking over the single syllable. “Please.”

Natasha doesn’t know what she’s asking for, but no one answers anyway. So she just keeps looking out the window, staring at nothing in particular, hoping for something that she can’t put words to.

She sees the tears in her reflection long before she feels them on her cheeks.

* * *

Clint yanks his katana from the dead body, wincing as it splatters blood everywhere, including onto him. “Man, I _just_ got this shirt,” he says to the guy tied up on the floor. “Like, two days ago.”

The guy doesn’t answer. He can’t, really, seeing as how there’s a wad of cloth in his mouth, but that’s fine. Clint doesn’t care about his opinions. This isn’t about that. This is about fear.

He puts the edge of the katana on the guy’s cheek. “So here’s the deal,” he says conversationally, like he’s not surrounded by sixteen dead bodies in varying states of dismemberment. “You currently have a shipment that’s ready to be sent out. It’s in a red cargo container on the north dock. Nod if this sounds familiar.”

The guy nods.

“Good. Now. I don’t give a shit about the drugs. You wanna sell drugs, that’s fine. Your life, your choices. What I do care about is the container _next_ to it. The one full of little girls.” He smirks as the guy’s eyes widen. “Yeah, I know about that. I also know about your plan to sell them off, _and_ I know how much money you’re getting for them. It’s a hell of a profit, I’ll admit.”

He pushes the katana harder into the guy’s cheek. “But it’s a profit you’re never gonna see. You and I are going to go to the docks. You’re going to open that container and let those girls out. Then all of us are going to take a little trip to the police station.”

He reaches down and pulls the cloth out of the guy’s mouth. “If you have any protests, let’s hear them now.”

The guy snarls something in Farsi, which Clint does not understand. He suspects it’s very rude, though, judging by the way the guy is glaring at him.

“English,” he says. “Or Spanish, if you’re up for it. I’m still working on Russian and Arabic, but my Spanish is pretty passable now.”

“You will pay for this,” the guy spits in accented English. “Do you understand me? You will pay, you fucking—”

“Now, now,” Clint says, tracing the katana down to his throat. “Let’s be civil, here. I left you alive, after all. Could be worse. Could be like these guys.” He waves to the room in general. “I didn’t even cut off your dick or anything. You should thank me for being so nice to you.”

He presses the katana down. “Say it, asshole. Say thank you.”

The guy glares up at him, and for a moment, Clint thinks he really will have to kill him. But then he grits out, “Thank you,” and Clint nods.

“Was that so hard?” He eases off the pressure. “You’re welcome.” He hauls the guy to his feet, forces him out to the car. Zip ties him to the steering wheel, then gets in the backseat. “To the docks, then.”

There are seventeen girls in the container. It smells awful, like piss and death and sickness. They look so grateful to come out. He doesn’t blame them.

One of them has a rounded nose, and shoulder-length brown hair. Clint looks at her and sees someone else entirely. A girl in a plaid shirt, with a wrist guard on and a bow dangling from one hand, offering him a brilliant smile as she shoots an arrow into a target—

A little scream pulls him back to reality, and he blinks, looking down at the katana. It’s sticking out of the guy, buried to the hilt in his chest. “Oh.”

He pulls it out. The guy blinks, then collapses to the ground in a heap, and Clint scowls down at him. It’s not a major loss, but he _had_ been planning on turning the guy in. It’s better to leave one alive, sometimes. Helps spread the rumors and all.

Oh well. No use crying over dead assholes. He cleans the blade off and tucks it away, then turns to the girls. “Hey,” he says, trying for a smile. “It’s okay. I’m here to help.”

They stare at him blankly. “Help,” he says again. “Safe.” Then he says it in Russian, and Arabic. He tries Farsi, but he’s pretty sure he mangles the word too badly to be useful.

One of the girls steps forward, the one with the rounded nose. “Safe,” she repeats in Arabic, then turns to the other girls. “We are safe.”

He calls the local police station. He’s got an ongoing partnership—or something like it—with one of the officers there, and he trusts the guy to do the right thing. They chat for a moment, and then Clint hangs up. He hands the phone and some money to the girl. “Safe,” he tells her again in Arabic. “The police are coming.”

She nods. As he turns to go, she reaches out and tugs his sleeve. “Who are you?”

_Clint Barton,_ he starts to say, but that’s not really the truth. _Hawkeye,_ but that’s not right either. Not anymore.

“Ronin,” he says, prying her hand off him, and he vanishes into the night.

He watches the police arrive from on top of a shipping container. They give the girls blankets and clothes, and question them about the dead body on the ground. The round-nosed girl mimes a stabbing motion, and the officer instantly calls over a couple of his friends. There’s a swell of excitement among them as they examine the body, and he hears his name spoken in hushed whispers.

_Look at that,_ Clint thinks, biting back a grin. _I’m a celebrity._

They bundle the girls into ambulances and cars and drive them away, leaving a team to investigate the dead body and the container. They open the nearby ones as well, and Clint bites back a satisfied smile as they find the one with the drugs. _Rough day for these guys._

Clint hangs around until the last of the girls are gone. Then he rolls to his feet and creeps away into the darkness, pretending that he’s got a plan of what to do next.

* * *

Rhodey used to pride himself on being a good judge of character. He’s always had an ability to cut through the bullshit surrounding people and see into their souls, get a true feeling for who they are. That’s how he befriended Tony Stark. That’s how he rose to be a colonel. He can see people. He _knows_ them.

At least, he thought he did. Either Clint was very good at hiding this side of him, or Rhodey’s not as good as he thought he was, because this—

This is not the man he thought he knew.

_Grief changes people_ , he thinks as he steps around another severed head. _You can’t expect everyone to react the same way._ And Clint had lost more than most of them, and his grief was compounded by the fact that he wasn’t at that final fight.

It might not have made a difference, in the end. They might’ve lost anyway. They’d all given their best—more than their best—and it had still amounted to nothing.

But Clint had never gotten that chance. He’d been out. Retired. Happy with his family, unaware of any danger to them, unaware that there was a fight going on to keep them safe. He wonders, sometimes, if that’s what really sent Clint over the edge. Not just losing his family, but the knowledge that he never even got the chance to stand up and protect them in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” he says, even though the dead are the only ones who hear him. “We should’ve called you.”

No matter the danger. No matter the Accords, or the deals made. They still should’ve called him.

Rhodey turns around and walks out of the warehouse. He needs to contact Natasha. It kills him every time, because he can _see_ how much it hurts her—no matter how hard she tries to hide it. But he promised.

She answers on the first ring. “Is it him?”

“Yeah, Nat. It’s him.”

“Was he still there?”

“No, he’s long gone.”

There’s a long pause, and then a soft, “Oh.”

Rhodey gives her the details. Sends her the pictures. Forwards the necessary contact numbers. Then before he hangs up, he grits his teeth and says, “He’s on Interpol’s list now, Natasha. He’s an international criminal. There’s a price on his head.”

“He’s taking out bad guys,” she responds quietly. “You really think anyone’s going to miss these people?”

“Nat. “

“I know, Rhodes. I just…” She sounds like she’s about to cry. “Find him first, please?”

“I’m trying.”

“Thank you.”

Rhodey hangs up. Looks back into the warehouse at the trail of bodies, the blood splatters, the severed limbs. The sheer amount of cold destruction left by a man he thought he understood.

_Guess I don’t know you that well after all,_ he thinks, and turns away.

* * *

Clint bites back a scream as the knife slams into his leg for the third time. He doesn’t quite make it, though, and it comes out as this horrible choked screech instead. He wheezes in a breath and tries not to throw up.

“I’m terribly sorry,” says the asshole sitting across from him, nodding approvingly as his bodyguard yanks the knife back out. “Did that hurt?”

“Nope,” Clint gasps out. “Was it…supposed to?”

The asshole—Oleg, or something—laughs quietly. “I find your bravado very amusing, I must say.”

Clint looks down at his leg. _Poked like a pincushion,_ he thinks wildly, and can’t help the hysterical giggle that comes out of his mouth.

Oleg looks a little shocked at that, although Clint’s not sure why. They’ve been at this for a while, and he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s bound to be at least a _little_ loopy.

“Just tell us where the money is,” Oleg says, sounding very reasonable. “That is all we want. Tell us where the money is, and we can let you go.”

“No, you won’t,” Clint says. He’s so tired. So tired of all of this. He just wants to sleep. “I tell you where it is, you kill me after. I’m not an idiot, Oleg. I know how people like you work.” He forces his head up, looks him in the eye. “So if I’m going to end up dead either way, then I might as well die knowing I’ve pissed you off. I’m petty like that.”

Oleg sighs, like he’s talking to a petulant child. Which, to be fair, he kind of is. “Is that really what you want to do? You want to risk not seeing tomorrow, just to be spiteful towards me?”

“Of course I would,” Clint tells him. “I don’t want my tomorrows, anyway. I’d trade every goddamn one of them for a single yesterday.”

Oleg’s eyes narrow, and his muscular bodyguard picks up another knife. “Then I suppose we will have to keep going.”

“Could do that,” Clint says. “Or we could just jump to the part where I kill you all. That’s what I’m voting for.” He looks at his katana, brazenly laying across Oleg’s desk. _Should’ve hid that somewhere, dumbass._

“I don’t think you are in any position to make threats.”

“Why, because you’ve got me tied to a chair in my underwear?” Clint grins. It feels a little mad across his face. “Buddy, this is just a regular Tuesday for me.”

Oleg’s face goes from smug to slightly concerned. “Mr. Ronin—”

“Just Ronin,” Clint says, twisting his wrists a little more. The guy did a good job tying him up, but it’s no match for his former circus brat skills. “Mr. Ronin was my dad, ya know.”

Oleg looks confused at that, and Clint snickers. “Anyway,” he says. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

He pulls his arms free and lunges forward, grabbing the katana from the desk. His leg hurts like a bitch, but he ignores it, stepping to the side and swinging for everything he’s worth. Two seconds later, the bodyguard’s head hits the floor, followed by the rest of him. Blood spurts over the walls, and Clint spins the other way, pushing the edge of the blade under Oleg’s chin. “Don’t move,” he says calmly.

Oleg freezes.

“Hands on the desk,” Clint says. “Both of them. Fingers wide open.”

He puts his hands on the desk, looking terrified. “A-are you going to kill me?”

“I want to,” Clint says. “No one would miss you.” His leg trembles, and he switches to a one-handed hold, supporting his weight on the desk with the other. “But I won’t.”

Oleg sniffs, getting a little control over himself. “Does it offend your sensibilities, to kill an unarmed man?”

Clint snorts. “No, asshole. I just have something else in mind. You right handed or left handed?”

Oleg clamps his mouth shut.

“Okay,” Clint says. “That’s fine. I can take both.”

He raises the katana, and Oleg makes a little shrieking noise. “Right!”

“You lyin’ to me?”

“No. No, I swear.”

“Good,” Clint says, and he slams the katana down. It slices neatly through Oleg’s left hand, severing it off at the wrist. Oleg stares at it for a moment, and then starts screaming. Loud, horrible screaming. Clint rolls his eyes and limps over the chair. “You’ll live,” he says. “Unlike all those people you murdered in the name of making yourself money.”

He sets the katana down and picks up his discarded shirt, shredding it easily. Then he grits his teeth and tightly wraps his wounds. It’s not the best, but it’ll have to do for now.

“Here,” he says, tossing the rest of his shirt at Oleg. “Wrap it up and stop whining. You had me stabbed three times in the leg, but I’m not complaining about it, am I?”

Oleg keeps screaming, so Clint wraps it for him, tying it off tightly. “This is mercy,” he says. “I want you to remember this moment.”

He finds the rest of his clothes and drags them back on, wincing at the pain and the blood. He’s gonna have to find a clinic or something, some place where they won’t ask too many questions. This is a little beyond his capabilities.

“Why?”

The word is whispered. Pained. Clint sheathes his katana and turns around, watching coldly as Oleg curls into himself. His face is pale and glistening with sweat.

“Why am I doing this? Or why am I letting you live?”

Oleg just blinks at him.

Clint sighs. “I’m letting you live,” he says, “because I want you to tell the story. You get to be my messenger. My warning.”

“Warning for what?”

“That there’s still people watching,” Clint says. “Guys like you seem to think that just because half the world disappeared, no one cares what you do anymore.” He reaches out and grabs Oleg’s hair, wrenching his head back. “But I care, asshole. I care a lot. And I can do something about it.”

He lets go. “You’re going to shut it down,” he says. “No more collecting protection money from the little guys. No more bribery. No more murder. I’m giving you one chance, Oleg. I suggest you take it.”

“I will never—” Oleg starts, and Clint punches him in the face.

“You can lose a lot more than a hand,” he informs him. “A lot more.” He rattles off Oleg’s home address, and revels in the way his eyes suddenly go desperate with fear. He doesn’t have to know that Clint would never hurt his family. It’s the threat that counts. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Oleg gasps. “Yes.”

“Good.”

He leaves. There’s no guards outside the door—arrogance at work, he supposes—so he’s able to make his way out of the building without killing anyone else. It’s a nice change.

He finds a local clinic. The night nurse stitches him up without comment. Gives him a blood transfusion and something to drink. Refuses his money, too, so he just shoves it into her pocket when she’s not looking. “You should stay off that for a few days,” she says, gesturing to his leg.

“Can’t. Gotta clear out.”

“You can stay with me.”

He looks at her. Brown hair, soft smile, warm eyes. It reminds him of a dream he once had. A dream that might have been real, once upon a time. “I can’t,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

She nods and puts a butterfly bandage on his split chin. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s not fair.”

“What’s not?”

“That they’re gone, and he’s here.” He pulls away from her soft fingers, unable to stop the tears from blurring his vision. “My family disappeared, and they didn’t deserve to, and assholes like him got to stay. It’s not fair. So I’m fixing it.”

Her hand cups around his face. “Is this what they would have wanted for you? Your family?”

No. It’s not.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, pulling away. “They’re not here.”

“I don’t think they would want you to kill yourself,” she says.

“I’m not trying to kill myself,” Clint says, wondering if that’s really the truth. “I’m trying to bring some balance back to the world.”

“By killing everyone?”

“The ones who deserve it.”

“And who decides that?” she asks quietly.

“Me.”

Her fingers trace over a cut on his arm. It’s not bleeding, but she cleans it anyway. “That’s a heavy thing to carry alone.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Why does it have to be you?”

“Because it’s the only thing I _can_ do,” he whispers, and hops off the table. “Thanks for your help.”

“Are you sure you won’t stay with me?”

Clint looks at her again, but he doesn’t see her. He just sees everything he once had, everything he lost, and his heart twists in his chest. “I can’t,” he says again, and grabs his clothes from the floor. “I’ll let myself out.”

She doesn’t respond. Just watches with a sad expression as he packs up his things. It’s not until he’s reaching for the door when she finally says, “There is someone looking for you.”

“There’s lots of people looking for me. I’m Interpol’s most wanted, apparently.” It’s a bit of a joke, now that Interpol is half of what it used to be, but he still feels a tiny thrill of pride.

“This one is different. He comes in armor, like Iron Man, and—”

_Rhodey._ Clint shakes his head. “Have you seen him?”

“Not personally.”

“If he comes around, you can tell him I was here.” He pauses, then adds, “And tell him I said to go home. I know what he’s trying to do, and I don’t need it.”

“If he’s trying to help you—”

“He’s trying to stop me. It’s not the same.”

“Why won’t you let him?”

Clint tries for a smile. “Still got shit to do,” he says, and he leaves.

* * *

Natasha is sleeping when the phone rings. It takes her a few moments to get to it, and she doesn’t recognize the number, but she answers anyway. “Hello?”

“Happy birthday,” says a quiet voice she knows instantly.

Natasha sits up fast, tossing her blanket aside. “Clint?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“France.”

“Doing what?”

He laughs quietly. Bitterly, almost. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

A long sigh. “Local shit, really. Politics and bribery. Something about oil, I think? I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just delivering justice.”

“Are they dead?”

“Most of them.”

“And the rest?”

“Heading that way.”

She leans back against the pillows. “Why?”

“Because they deserve to be.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you think you deserve to be dead, too?”

There’s a long silence after that. So long that Natasha pulls the phone away from her ear, sure that the connection’s been lost. But he’s still there, and as she puts the phone back, she hears, “It should’ve been me, Nat. Not them.”

Natasha shakes her head. “Clint, don’t do that to yourself.”

“It should’ve, and you know it.” He laughs again, cold and bitter, and she hates it. “Look at what I’m doing. Look at what I’ve become.”

“You can stop, Clint. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do any of this.”

“I think that opportunity is long gone.”

“It’s _not_.”

He’s quiet again. Then he says, “Please don’t. I just wanted to say happy birthday. I’m sorry I’m not there.”

“I am too.”

They listen to the sound of each other’s breathing, comfortable and familiar. Eventually Clint says, “I should go.”

Natasha closes her eyes. “Will you call again?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. “Always.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll do my best.”

“I love you,” she says, gripping the phone like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. “Clint.”

“Love you too, Nat.”

He hangs up.

She doesn’t go back to sleep.

* * *

Summer in Mexico is ungodly hot, even at night. Not for the first time, Clint regrets choosing this outfit. Black leather is good for stealth and protection, but he’s going to sweat to death before he even gets close to these guys.

“Suck it up,” he mutters, crawling over the roof of the building. “You’ve had worse.”

Which is true, but that doesn’t mean he’s not gonna bitch about it.

He hits the edge of the skylight and peers over. They’re all down there, every single one of them. All the proverbial eggs in one basket. _Stupid move, boys._ They’re all arguing about something, gesturing wildly and cursing at each other. He listens a little closer, and doesn’t bother to hide the nasty smile when he hears _Ronin_.

“That’s it, fuckers,” he mutters. “Say my goddamn name.”

He stands up. Attaches the rope to the harness around his waist, then double checks it. Pulls out a flash bang grenade, one of his last ones, and yanks the pin out. Then he kicks the skylight open, drops the grenade in, and covers his face.

It goes off, accompanied with a lot of screaming and shrieking. Clint drops into the middle of the fray like a nightmare in black, katana at the ready.

“Sorry fellas,” he drawls, stabbing the first one through the guts as he releases the harness. “Guess my invite got lost in the mail.”

It’s a cheesy line, but they can’t hear him anyway, so who cares. He blows through the room like a tornado, a maelstrom of destruction and death. He doesn’t stop until the last one is beheaded, body collapsing at his feet as the head rolls away.

Clint sucks in a ragged breath and straightens up, surveying the room with a cold gaze. They’re all dead, all—

No. One’s left. Clint watches as he crawls across the floor towards a gun, leaving a trail of thick blood behind. “Going somewhere?” Clint asks, casually kicking it out of reach.

“Motherfucker _,”_ the man spits at him in heavily accented English. “You think this will stop us? You think—”

“You’re done,” Clint interrupts. “Hear me? _No más._ I gave you a chance to stop, and you didn’t. You took a bunch of kids captive and cowered behind them instead, thinking that would stop me from getting you.” He presses the edge of the katana into the guy’s stomach and leans on it, letting a nasty smile cross his face as the guy screams in pain. “It didn’t, by the way. Kids are all fine. They’re back home and safe. But you?” He presses harder, watches the blood well up. “You’re dead. This is the end of the line for you.”

“ _Las Serpientes_ will never die,” the guy hisses. “Even if you—”

“Man, shut the fuck up,” Clint says, and slices his throat. He watches with sick satisfaction as the guy gasps and bleeds and gurgles his way into death. Then he gets to work, dragging the bodies into position, using their blood to write on the wall. It’s more theatrical than he usually goes for, but fuck it. He’s been chasing these guys for months. He deserves a little theatrics.

When he’s done, he examines the room with a critical gaze, then nods. “Good enough.”

He straps back into his harness and climbs up the rope. Gathers his equipment and disappears into the night. He calls the Federales when he’s a few hours away, and offers them an anonymous tip. Then he cracks the phone in half, chucks both halves into the ocean, and starts walking.

It’s been the better part of seven months down here, drinking tequila by day and killing cartel members by night. He’s not sure where to go, now. He’s so tired.

_Could go home,_ he thinks, but immediately shuts that idea down. Where is home, anyway? A crumbling farm? A compound full of grieving people? A half-empty SHIELD base? He doesn’t belong in any of those places any more than he belongs here. He's spent almost five years chasing blood and death to sate something inside himself, something that he doesn't really even understand. He can't just go _back_ after that. Life doesn't work that way.

Clint takes his things back to the room he’s renting, then digs out one of his other burner phones. He dials a number from memory.

“Natasha.”

“Clint?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat.

“Where are you?”

“Mexico.”

“Where in Mexico?”

“No idea. Somewhere by the Gulf.” He sits on the bed. “How are things?”

“Why don’t you come home and see for yourself?”

“You know I can’t do that, Nat.”

“There’s nothing stopping you, Clint.”

“I’ve still got—”

“Got what? People to kill? There will always be more bad guys, Clint. You really think you can take them out on your own? Are you really going to spend the rest of your life doing this?”

“If I have to,” he snaps, then rubs his eyebrows. “Stop it, okay? I didn’t call to argue about this.”

Her voice softens. “Then why did you call?”

He doesn’t know. He never knows.

Natasha, bless her, doesn’t push it. “You still have a place here,” is all she says.

_No, I don't, Nat. Not anymore.  
_

Silence descends, broken only by the sound of her breathing. They sit like that for a long time, neither one saying a single word.

Finally, Nat speaks. “I need to go,” she says. “Steve asked me to help with something.”

“Okay.” He scrubs at his eyes, surprised to find them wet. He thought he’d cried his last tears years ago. “Did you get my Christmas card?”

“I did,” she says, sounding amused. “A little surprised to get it in July, but yes. I got it.”

“Sorry. I was in a shipping crate during Christmas; I didn’t get the chance to buy one then.”

“Maybe this Christmas you can deliver it in person. On time.”

“Maybe I will,” he says, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

It’s a lie. He knows it, she knows it, but it’s nicer to hear than the truth. So they both pretend to believe it, and say goodbye. Clint shatters the SIM card in the phone and lets his head rest against the wall behind him.

His gaze drifts around the room, looking at nothing in particular. The calendar on the wall, still set to August 2003. The broken lamp on the nightstand. The book tossed on the table. He leans forward and picks it up, turning it over in his hands. _A Pale View of Hills,_ by Kazuo Ishiguro.

Clint taps it on his knee, thinking carefully. Then he gets up, grabs his things—and the book—and walks out of the room.

“Never been to Japan,” he mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Could be fun.”

* * *

Natasha braces her hands on her desk, feeling more worn out than ever as she looks over the faces of her teammates. “Alright,” she says, making sure her voice is steady. Authoritative. Calm. “This channel’s always active, so if anything goes sideways, anyone’s making trouble where they shouldn’t…it comes through me.”

She doesn’t know if she convinces any of her friends, but they all murmur their assent anyway, and one by one vanish into nothingness. Natasha sits heavily behind the desk and looks at her sandwich, debating if she really wants to eat it or not. Eating is a chore these days, something necessary to do rather than enjoy. She hasn’t _tasted_ anything in years.

She used to love food. Used to love visiting restaurants after missions, her and Clint daring each other to eat the weirdest things on the menu. She’ll never forget his expression the first time he tried fried tarantula, or the time in the Philippines when she’d eaten _balut._ It had been totally worth the nausea to see the look on his face.

Natasha shakes the memory off and looks up to see Rhodey’s hologram still there, blue and crystalized. She takes a deep breath and crosses her arms. “Where are you?”

“Mexico,” he says, and her heart sinks. She’d wondered how close behind Clint he was. “The Federales found a room full of bodies. Looks like a bunch of cartel guys. They never even had a chance to get their guns out.”

Natasha schools her face into blankness and shifts her weight. “Oh, it’s probably a rival gang,” she lies.

“Except it isn’t,” he says, and she closes her eyes. “It’s definitely Barton. What he’s done here…what he’s been doing here for the last few years…” He trails off for a moment, then says, “I mean, the scene that he left…I gotta tell you, there’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to find him.”

Natasha stares down at her sandwich and clenches her jaw, fighting back the sob threatening to burst from her at any second. “Will you find out where he’s going next?” She reaches out, takes a bite of her sandwich, trying to look collected. In charge.

Rhodey isn’t fooled. He blinks a few times, face full of sorrow and sympathy. “Nat…”

Tears burn her eyes. “Please?” she manages.

After a moment, he barely nods, then casts his eyes to something she can’t see. “Okay,” he murmurs, and vanishes with one last look.

The bite turns to ashes in her mouth and Natasha drops the sandwich on her plate. She presses her face into her hands, taking in a shaky breath. _Just come home, Clint. Please. Just come home._

* * *

Tokyo looks like an interesting city, all things considered, but Clint doesn’t think he’ll get the chance to enjoy it. He'd pretty much hit the ground running here, and he’s probably going to have to clear out after this is over. Maybe leave the country awhile. Could always head back down to Bali; it’s been a long while since he was there.

He drops onto a table and hurls a knife, dropping yet another Yakuza. He can hear more coming, screaming at each other. “It’s him! He’s after Akihiko!”

He knocks out two more. Exchanges a few quick jabs with another, then shoves him out a window. Up. Gotta go up, gotta get higher, he sees better from a distance—

Gunfire. Screaming. Blue lights around him, illuminating the scene as he stabs and twirls and slices. He sees Akihiko, who sees him in turn, and Clint can almost taste the fear coming off him. He grins at the sight, a terrible, wolfish smile, and Akihiko jumps out the nearest window.

“Aw, window, no,” Clint mutters, but he jumps out after him, because he’s going to see this through. Akihiko hits the ground and stumbles away, clearly injured. Clint lands half a second later, taking it a little better, and straightens up.

Akihiko slowly turns to face him, a stoic expression on his face. Clint can almost respect that, in a way. He’s dispatched enough sniveling cowards recently to respect someone who faces death with dignity.

“Why are you doing this?” Akihiko asks in Japanese, unsheathing his katana. “We never did anything to you!”

“You survived,” Clint says in the same language, getting himself ready. He wishes it wasn’t raining quite so hard. It’s killing his visibility. “Half the planet didn’t.” He unsheathes his own katana and lowers his hand to his side, turning to make a smaller target. “They got Thanos. You get me.”

They step in, exchanging blows in a test of skill. Clint wins, scoring a slice across Akihiko’s stomach.

“You’re done hurting people,” Clint tells him.

He looks incredulous. “ _We_ hurt people?” He spreads his arms out, gesturing to the bodies around them, and scoffs. “You’re crazy!”

Another lunge. Clint catches it on his own blade and forces him upwards. Akihiko knocks the blades sideways with his free hand, and Clint takes advantage of the opening to punch him. He steps back, arm extended and katana straight. There’s a moment where they look at each other. Sizing each other up.

Then Akihiko knocks his blade aside and slices his own down. Clint steps back and catches it easily. There’s another quick flurry of blows, another punch thrown, and then he scores a second hit across Akihiko’s stomach, watching dispassionately as he chokes with the pain.

Akihiko turns and looks back at him. There’s fear on his face now, and resignation. They both know how this is going to end.

He lunges forward anyway with a ragged war cry, and Clint can respect that too. He waits until the last second, then sidesteps. Slices up and across. He knows he’s hit the target before he even turns around. Akihiko is on the ground, hand clutching at his throat as blood spills over it.

There is no bravery anymore. It’s just terror, pure and simple. He reaches towards Clint, gurgling and gasping. “Wait!” he shouts, reaching out. “Help me!”

Clint doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t move forward either. Just stands there and watches the blood spill over Akihiko’s hand, wondering if it’ll be enough to satisfy him this time.

“I’ll give you anything,” Akihiko chokes out. “What do you want?”

What does he want?

He wants a farm. He wants peace. He wants children laughing, and the feel of a hand in his, and the security of someone else in his bed.

He wants his fucking family back.

Clint looks at the man in front of him and feels nothing but contempt. _You lived. They died. I’m just making things right._

“What I want,” he says in English, “you can’t give me.”

He flips his katana and stabs straight down. The blade crunches through bone and organs and muscle with ease. He pulls it it out and Akihiko falls over, unseeing eyes open in the rain. _Too quick,_ Clint thinks, cleaning the blade off on his sleeve. _Too quick for someone like you._

He looks down at the body, watching the blood mix with the rain, and the back of his neck suddenly prickles.

_Natasha._

Clint doesn’t have to look to confirm it. He knows it’s her.

He reaches up and pushes the hood back, then yanks the mask off. There’s no point in hiding. She knows it’s him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says without turning around, and for a moment he doesn’t know if he’s talking to her or himself.

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Neither should you.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh—Natasha, ever the mind reader— and turns around, looking at his best friend for the first time in five years.

Her hair is longer, he thinks, even though all he can see is a tight braid. But her eyes are the same, and her face, and the way she’s looking at him—

“I’ve got a job to do,” he says, shaking water off his arm.

“Is that what you’re calling this?” She steps forward, carefully picking her way over bodies. “Killing all these people isn’t gonna bring your family back.”

He knows that. Christ, he _knows_. But he doesn’t say it, because he’s never been able to admit that out loud. Because saying it out loud will make it true, and he doesn’t think he’ll survive that blow.

Natasha keeps walking towards him. “We found something,” she says. “A chance. Maybe.”

Clint fights back the swell of emotions fighting in him, and shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says, meeting her eyes. _Please, Nat. Don’t._

She looks at him, right into his soul like she always does, and in an even voice says, “Don’t what?”

“Don’t give me hope,” he says, shaking his head again. Because if she gives him hope, and it doesn’t work out…

He won’t survive that either.

He searches her gaze, not sure what he’s looking for. But all he sees is himself, reflected in her eyes, and the tears to match his own as she says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you sooner.”

Clint looks down at Akihiko’s lifeless body, and closes his eyes. There’s a touch on his hand, her small but sure fingers winding into his, and then a soft squeeze. Clint swallows, and after a second, he squeezes back.

* * *

Hope, apparently, is a wild science fiction plot, and the feeling of falling down a long well, and the rough tread of a tractor tire under his hand. It’s the shock of seeing a familiar farmhouse after so many years of blood and death. It’s creak of his front porch as he scrambles up it, calling a name he hasn’t allowed himself to speak in years.

Then it’s in his hands, in the form of a leather baseball glove, and Clint can’t stand under the weight of it. He crashes to his hand and knees, feels Natasha’s hand cup around his face. He can’t stop himself from shaking as she pulls him up.

“It worked,” he says to her, forcing the words out through the lump in his throat. He turns to the rest of them, wonder and joy burning through him. “It _worked_ ,” he says again, seeing those same things reflected in their faces.

For the first time in five years, he feels like he can breathe.

* * *

But on the other side of hope, there is grief.

Grief is raw. Overwhelming. Painful.

Grief is watching your best friend drop to her death.

Grief is five words, whispered with a look of love that he will never see again.

_Let me go. It’s okay._

Grief is wondering, deep inside himself, if getting his world back was worth losing her.

He doesn’t say these things. None of them do. They just get themselves ready for whatever’s coming, because whether it was worth it or not, it’s happening. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for, and they’re going to see it through.

There are bright lights. Screaming. A snap of metal. Bruce collapses on the floor, and the others gather around him. “Did it work?” Bruce asks, and at first, Clint thinks it didn’t.

Then he hears it. Birds, chirping. Dozens of them flitting around outside, like they never left in the first place.

And on the table—

His cell phone. Buzzing. And the picture, so familiar, like five years have never happened and she’s just calling about groceries, or telling him to get the kids from school.

Clint picks it up. “Honey?”

“Clint?”

_Laura._

“Honey,” he says again, the word catching in his throat to come out as a whisper, and he feels the thin shred of hope start to grow in him again.

_It worked,_ he tells Natasha, pressing a shaking hand to his mouth. _It worked._

* * *

Once upon a time, there was Natasha.

Clint sees her in his dreams, sometimes. Sees a subtle smile, and a flash of red hair, and knows that no matter what, she’s got his back. It’s always hazy, that dream, all blurred edges and skipped moments of time, but there’s a warmth to it as well. A happiness. A sense of love, a bond deeper than anything he’s ever known before.

But then he wakes up and she’s gone, and he wonders if he imagined her after all. Was she really there? Did they really do all those things together?

Then he sees _them_. His kids, his wife. Nathaniel, Lila, Cooper, Laura. They’re here, and they’re real, and he has them because of her. Because of what she did for him.

Laura’s arms wrap around his waist, firm and loving. “What are you thinking about?” she asks, like she doesn’t already know.

“Natasha,” he says anyway, feeling the familiar burn in his chest at her name. “I miss her.”

“I know you do,” she murmurs, kissing his shoulder. “I miss her too.”

Clint leans into her embrace, putting a hand over hers. “I just wish I could show her,” he murmurs back. “Show her that we won.”

“She knows,” Laura assures him. “Somewhere out there. She knows. Her and Tony. They both do.”

“I hope so.”

They stand there quietly, watching the sunset over the distant hills. Watching their kids play in the grass, happy and thriving and beautiful. His eyes prick with tears, and he doesn’t bother hiding them.

“Dinner’s ready,” Laura says after awhile. “I’ll get the kids.”

Clint nods. She gathers the kids, herds them inside without letting them bother him. He’s grateful for that. He leans against the porch railing, eyes still on the fading light, and lets out a long breath.

“Love you,” he says to the distant sun, hoping against everything that wherever Natasha is, she can hear him. “Love you so goddamn much.”

Then he turns and goes inside, stepping through the door to smile at the family she gave back to him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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